


Abaniko

by WhatWentWrongWithWalter



Category: Adventure Time
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Philippines Setting, Class Differences, Derogatory Language, F/F, Fiction, Filipino dialogues, Historical Accuracy, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Period-Typical Homophobia, Spanish dialogues, glossary and translations are included and grounded in context
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-01 03:12:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15765423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatWentWrongWithWalter/pseuds/WhatWentWrongWithWalter
Summary: Taking on the role of the leader of a small band (of misfits) sounds like a big responsibility for Doña Bonita, but she loves her amigos, and she loves her trabaho as a musician. All these things eventually pushes her to meet a certain señorita, who is the last person she expects to fit a place in her heart.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Important:** The setting is in the Philippines during the American colonization period. (If you don't know what or where the **Philippines** is, kindly Google it.) Thus, this fiction is stylized to fit the context of the narrative. If it's "too much local colour" for you— because this is a period of mixed languages and identity (Spanish, Filipino, English), again, Google is your friend.  Or feel free to comment below if you have any questions? Glossary can be found at the End Notes.
> 
> Since I would like to be true to the context of this time period, I also renamed the characters. True, the Americans may have us under their imperial rule, but this was our transition period as a nation, therefore we still have very Spanish-sounding names instead of American. ~~Fuck imperialism and capitalism.~~ I also tagged the characters who appears in this story, so you can have an idea on who's who. But before reading, please take note of this, if you can't guess them right away.
> 
> -Señorita Marquita: Marceline  
> -Señorita Bonita: Princess Bubblegum  
> -Don Julian Abadir: Hunson Abadeer  
> -Doña Milagros: Marceline's mom  
> -Don Simoun: Ice King/ Simon  
> -Pepito: Finn  
> -Juan: Jake  
> -Luciana: Lumpy Space Princess  
> -Señorita Teresita: Treetrunks  
> -Filomena: Flame Princess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *EDIT: (6 September 2018) Oh my god, I'm so sorry, but I typed cellist instead of violinist. And I forgot to add guitarist so WOW. I fixed the error, and I'm so sorry about that. That's all, thank you.

The bachelors from Europe had already arrived an hour ago in the ancestral house of Familia Abadir. The house on Calle San Sebastian— the whitest, the largest, the loudest, the brightest— projected a Christmas aura bursting out of character in mid-April. Laughter spilled out of the sala and down the staircase, glowing into the night. All the guests, ilustrados, the elite, couldn’t get enough of the merriment and dancing.

The largest hall, usually cold and empty, was swept clean, finally spotless and impeccably immaculate from years of waiting in silence. The maids, about a dozen women all under the age of 18, changed the mundane black curtains into crimson, more fitting for the occasion. After that, it was a cycle of cooking and cleaning up and assisting all these pompously rich guests, until the bachelors came. Even when the young men had stepped into the dining hall, the maids, who were disrespectfully referred to as _indio_ and called _tonta_ in hushed voices, never stopped cooking and cleaning yet.

Don Julian Abadir, a respected businessman, wine connoisseur, and music enthusiast, wanted a proper welcome for these gentlemen abroad. These scholars had left their dear country for five or more years, and now, the young men deserved a celebration! Why, when Don Julian was a young student coming back to the Philippines after years spent studying in Spain, his father had done the same homecoming party. It was custom to throw a feast. A toast for knowledge! A toast for the future! ¡Viva, viva! Congratulatory speeches had already been exchanged, as well as nostalgic remarks, the desire to go back to Europe, details like the museums, the libraries, the scenery, the women.

Now that these bachelors were back home, back in the arms of Manila, these young men were expected to serve the people with the knowledge the West had shared. It was, after all, the very purpose of leaving the country in the first place. To come back with new solutions to help this godforsaken country. ¿Sí? Sí. Let’s toast to that then, mis compadres y hermanos.

Discourse was already taking over as the night carefully unfolded into dark hours. Men and women had already stopped dancing, and the music stopped, too. Most of the men had delved into deep conversations, and the women, needed to leave for the night, just before "demons follow them to sleep." How superstitious and absurd, but the regular Filipino could gather up faith in almost anything and everything. 

The music had already stopped. The band was packing up and ready to go, but one of the musicians, a violinist, realized that the Abadir’s gave not a single centavo yet. An all-night performance, all for nothing? Ay, but they promised at least 40 pesos! The infuriated Doña Bonita crossed her arms in front of her chest. “These ilustrados! If they can afford to live in a mansion like this everyday, all the more they have the means to pay us, mis amigos!”

Pepito, the band’s flautist, nodded in agreement. “Sí, we do need the money to eat, or at least to afford pan de sal for all of us.” All in all, they were five, composed of a soprano, alto, violinist, guitarist, and flautist; Filomena, Doña Teresita, Doña Bonita, Luciana, and Pepito, with his dog, Juan.

Doña Teresita, the eldest among the group and the Alto, pointed that maybe Doña Bonita could negotiate with the Abadir’s. Theoretically, she was the band's leader figure. Commanding came natural for her, and even if she was not the eldest, she was truly respected.

"After all, it was only fair to get the promised 40 pesos," the Alto added. "Wouldn't it be grand to have that much? Perhaps, oh, we could even taste pan de coco for a change?"

Doña Bonita scanned the wide hall for Don Julian, or Doña Milagros, or their eldest and only daughter, Señorita Marquita. It was hard to simply stare, and the crowd was still rather lively, a mix of jest and serious tones. The violinist dived among cryptic conversations about the mystic Europe. And— oh! How she childishly dreamed of performing there someday! Perhaps their careers as musicians would be more recognized? More well paid even? Who knows. Alas, they barely even survive in a day, how much more travel outside the country?

If not for an old man named Don Simoun—God bless his soul— they would have never learned, or be where they are as musicians.

Don Simoun was a peculiar man who always wore putrid smelling clothes. (Or perhaps it was his armpits perspiring?) His coat sported a dark blue that matched the same hue of his loose pants. The Don was passionate about music. He wanted someone, anybody, to inherit his possessions and skill.

Before the band collided paths with him, they were very mischievous little ones. Even Teresita and Bonita, who insisted and devised plans of theft in different pueblos. But it was Pepito who spotted him first, since it was that niño who had attempted to steal his watch. For Pepito had trained his dog, Juan, to be a great distraction. But, alas, Don Simoun was able to see through his ruse, being a smart and observant old man.

Then, Don Simoun had gathered the children and brought them in his pueblo, and in his own tahanan. He showed no fear at the thought of welcoming five rascals and a mangy wet dog inside his very home. It wasn’t much, just a wide bungalow with two bedrooms, the kusina, the sala that functioned as a make-shift music room, and two bathrooms. The old man asked the kids to stay, to help him alleviate the loneliness in his life, and fulfill his dream to teach music. He gave them food, clothes, shelter, and most of all, hope and music.

His wife, who recently passed away, had been the cause of the void in his heart. There was no reason to live anymore, he had said, but the sala— complete with a piano, three kinds of guitars, a flute, a cello, a violin, a triangle, and some indigenous instruments like the dabakan, kulintang, kudlung, bungkaka, and tongatong, these instruments all silently stared at him and waited for a miracle.

The children, the band, it was the miracle Don Simoun could hope for before following his wife later in year 1907.

While he did leave his instruments to the care of the children in his last will, the house was open for auction. Alas, the kids could not produce the title of the land, for they didn't know where their father had kept it. Due to "insufficient documents," as the governor proclaimed, they lost the house. Once again, they were vagabonds— but vagabonds with talent! Some instruments, they had to sell. And with that money, they started to roam all over Manila to play their music. A house did not matter anymore, they had grown up having none. But now, they had each other and music and the Don in their grateful hearts.

Each day, the children would practice, they would play in the streets, visit different pueblos. Some families would be kind to house them, but conscience would eat them up. Why do people from the low class feel more empathy? Does it take one to know one? Oh, why couldn’t the rich and elite ilustrados give a damn!

Save for tonight, where a certain known elite family, that exported wine locally and internationally, called them to play at a bachelor's ball. And promised 40 pesos!  

Doña Bonita, head still stuck about fantasies of Europe, floated mindlessly down the wide hall. Her hands, raising her dress a bit, but not too high, just enough elevation so that the cola of her gown did not dare touch the vermilion carpet. She walked and searched until her dainty foot met a bump, and as gravity took hold of her body, a new element— a stranger’s hand, had swiftly caught her by the wrist, pulling her up just in time an embarrassing fall could occur, then another arm wrapped on the cellist’s waist. A coy smile met her flustered and befuddled face.

“Quite too early to be running away, señorita.”

Bonita gently pushed away the lady who caught her. She quickly bowed and apologized, a curt, “Paumanhin po,” and turned her back to continue her mission.

“Are you leaving?”

Ah, the tall lady was persistent. Bonita shook her head a no and politely answered, “Not until the Abadir’s pay us, señora.”

She clapped her forehead and exclaimed, “Oh! ¡Sí, sí! Lo siento, I almost forgot!”

“Po?”

But the woman disappeared in the crowd and left the violinist alone and astounded. Dumbfounded, she had no idea it was Señorita Marquita herself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I know not everybody reading this is a Filipino, or knows a thing about the Philippines, I included a few reference pictures (with citation) at the end. Feel free to browse if you're interested! Pinterest has a lot interesting pictures for reference.
> 
> Hit me up if you're interested to talk more! I'm @PrinsipeNgPoot on Twitter lol.

“¿Que?”

One of his brows shot upward, and his voice, shot a pitch higher than normal. Don Julian had never sounded this perplexed, no. It was as if he had seen a demon, but in the form of a plebeian, a young woman, a musician. Her round eyes dared pierce him, asking for their rightful compensation.

“But, I thought I told Marquita— hay, anak…” he crinkled his face, scrunched his nose in annoyance. “Sorry, sorry, I thought she had already paid the band since the music has stopped…” The Don forced a smile, but Bonita knew this act. All ilustrados loved to play this role, the inosente, but with all that money and power— absolutely almost everything was within __their__ reach.

When a young maid, unfortunately, passed by him and Bonita, he barked at her, asking where the señorita had gone to, and god, she better not answer __I don’t know po, señor__ or he would snap her arms then feed it to the pack of askal, the street dogs. The terrified maid apologized extensively, with eyes shut in fear and shoulders raised up to her ears.

“Please, maawa po kayo, señor… Please… Nakita ko naman po siya kanina, pero, hi-hindi ko po talaga alam, kung, kung saan po nagpunta ang señorita po….”

(Eng. trans.: Please, have mercy, señor… Please… I did see her a while ago, but, I have no clue on where she is right now….”)

Don Julian rolled his eyes and sighed. “Señorita, see, I just gave the money and— puñeta, anak!”

The sentence, abruptly cut by a derogatory interjection, made her turn around and meet once more that lady she had encountered not too long ago.

“Hay, salamat sa diyos! Okay, if you need anything else from me, which I’m sure you two can handle it anyway, I’ll be over there with mis compadres and solteros. You, Marquita, you should interact with these lads! Find a potential suitor, yes? Yes, alright. You have the whole night, anak.”

The tall man in black barong placed a rather awkward quick kiss on the señorita’s forehead and then left. She rolled her eyes in disgust and shook her head while muttering the word, “Ama naman…” she heaved a sigh. “He’s eccentric. Never understood how my ina tolerates him.”

As if coming back to her senses after a few seconds of dead air, she exclaimed, “Oh, I’m so sorry for the misunderstanding! I didn’t know you came looking for… that’s very brave of you. Not at all intimidated by him?”

“Ah. Well… Honestly… No.”

“But what about that scene he made a while ago? Going berserk like that… in a party? Sira ulo.”

“Ah, he was talking to one of your maids.”

“About?”

“He said he’d snap her arms, feed it to the dogs.”

“Utterly horrible.”

“Yes, señorita.”

“Oh, the lies he says. It’s maddening!” Marquita clapped her forehead, as if pleading for a throbbing headache to stop aching. “Do you… also have a godawful father?”

“Ah.” Bonita was astonished at the señorita’s lack of social cues. She didn't warm up. After all, there was no intention of prolonging her stay in an ilustrado’s lair. The casual talk was unexpected, but to her surprise, who knew an ilustrado could be this dense? Marquita, unfortunately, could not take a hint from her short and clipped answers, responses of disinterest.

“I’m sorry, but… Mis amigos… they’re hungry and waiting for me…”

The excuse she blurted wasn’t the best, but it was the first thing that came to her mind. It was always about them, her friends. They were her family, they were her home. Although there were times she felt like a mother, looking after them, fending for them like children, more than friends, yet Bonita didn’t complain. They always stuck together.

“God, I’m so sorry!” Marquita slightly ruffled up the skirt of her dress— lo and behold! She slipped a hand inside! A secret pocket! Bonita’s eyes were as round as coins when the señorita produced a small red pouch from the secret pocket.

“Here,” she handed the red pouch. “Mostly coins, so it’s a bit heavy. Do you still want to count it?”

“How…” she clasped her hands around the pouch but was still fixated on her skirt. “How were you… there’s a pocket on your…?”

“Yes!” she beamed a proud smile. “Sewed it myself.”

“ _ _You?__  Sew?”

The disbelief had a hint of distrust, Marquita couldn’t hide the hurt from her face.

“You don’t trust me?”

“Ah. But. You have… maids? To do things for you, do you not?”

This time, Marquita pulled a large red abaniko from the other side of her maria clara dress. She covered her smile with the abaniko, but did not suppress the chuckle. The red fabric was dark, making her pale face glow against all the shadows. Bonita suddenly noticed, were the lights dimmed, or did the señorita seem to shine in underexposed ambiance?

“You’re charming,” she said, hiding a wide smile. “Do you want to sit down a bit? Are you from around here? In this pueblo? Or did you come from the provinces?”

The two walked to an adjacent wide window, where the night breeze calmly breathed through.

“I… I don’t know where we travel to, most of the time. Off to wherever our feet takes us, señorita.” Bonita answered honestly, though quite embarrassed. Her voice was at a volume only a fly could understand, but Marquita seemed to have very keen hearing. “I am always with the band, they’re my family. We go everywhere, anywhere, we play music. That’s how we earn a living. Street performers without a real home, yet we’re always at home with each other.”

“How beautiful…”

“Pardon?”

“I mean, what you said! Of course!” Marquita slid the fan up to her nose, only her almond-like eyes could be seen. She sighed, and said, “I wish I could do that, too. Free to be out of this house? Free to roam around the streets? Sleep anywhere I would like? Sing out loud? Sing anytime? Sing so many songs? Turn my poems into songs? A beautiful dream!”

But Bonita shook her head and resented the idea. “No, you don’t know what you’re saying, señorita. You live very, ah, comfortably here? Things are different, very different, when you step out.”

“Darling, you don’t know I’d gladly pay the devil as many coins as he’d like just to get me out of this hell of a house.”

And as if to summon the devil himself, Don Julian emerges right behind the two ladies. “Dear, if I may introduce,” he started without even asking apologies for the disturbance. “You have been graced by the presence of a fine gentleman who is a businessman of all sorts of goods, El Don Victorino Abalos de Intramuros!”

Another man popped up from nowhere. Donned in amerikana, he was almost as tall as the owner of the mansion. Quite possibly almost of the same age, too. His unremarkable face bore only one distinguishable feature: the bush in between his lips and nose, quite a prominent moustache, it could’ve been mistaken for a higad from afar!

“A pleasure to meet a lovely señorita like you.” Don Victorino approached, and Señorita Marquita automatically extended the hand without a fan. The lad kissed her hand with his eyes pinned up to her face, half-hidden behind the abaniko.

“There’s no need to be timid, for you look stunning tonight, señora.”

“And there’s no need for you to hold on to my hand a second longer, señor. Or do you wish to sail back to Europe with my left arm?” Her tone was a mix of jest and mockery, even the musician could tell she was uncomfortable by the normal custom of introduction.

Don Julian coughed, but his eyes, warning narrowed slits, bore upon his daughter as a private admonition. He would never shout at a fellow ilustrado, let alone in front of an ilustrado. It would be a disgrace.

“Ah, Marquita, I see you’re still… ah, handling? The situation with our, um, guest?”

“Oh no, señor, I—” Bonita started to explain, started to move away from the window and the three ilustrados, but alas, her sentence never finished as Marquita abruptly declared, “We were about to dance, Ama! Excuse us po!”

Again, she was held by the wrist. They passed the two confused men and dived into the crowd. Despite the few women still present in the night, there were some pairs who, indeed, were pressed together in a slow dance.

Bonita, fearful at the thought of having to dance in public, pulled back her own wrist and hissed, “Excuse me, but I did not agree to dance!”

“Please, don’t let me go back." Her voice, her eyes, her whole body implored her to reconsider. "I do not want to spend the night with men.”

“Well, I do not want to dance at all, señorita.” Bonita was unpleasantly stubborn now, and she talked as if she they were on the same social class status. But that tone didn’t seem to bother the ilustrado.

“Will you dance with me if I pay you more?”

“What!”

“Five! I’ll give you 5 pesos. I can give it to you now, but you have to promise— please, hold my fan,” and Marquita fished some coins buried in the secret pocket her of her maria clara. Bonita had no time to back away or answer back. However, she simply held the fan as a sign for yes.

* * *

 Reference:

Black barong. Digital image. _My barong 2._ N.d., http://mybarong2.com/images/100746%20Black.jpg. Accessed on 26 August 2018.

Cutwork Alampay Black 002- Filipiniana. Digital image.  _Barong Warehouse._ N.d., https://barongwarehouse.com/products/cutwork-alampay-black-002-filipiniana. Accessed on 26 August 2018.

Dalagang Bukid, 1958. Digital image. _Art net_. N.D., http://www.artnet.com/artists/fernando-cueto-amorsolo/dalagang-bukid-y-Dl4JHiXSMi1wbIedz0dQ2. Accessed on 26 August 2018.

Martinez House. Art. N.d., https://www.art.com/products/p16925455733-sa-i6994831/luca-tettoni-martinez-house-art-nouveau-filipino-style-residence-from-1920-malabon-metro-manila-philippines.htm?upi=PZ9VYZ0. Accessed on 26 August 2018.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GLOSSARY: (Filipino: English)  
> \- Abaniko: fan  
> \- Ama: father  
> \- Anak: child (Yep, it's gender neutral so it can either mean daughter/ son)  
> \- Askal: ASong KALye. Stray dog.  
> \- Hay: interjection; a form of expression (depending on context, it could be tired/ agitated/ suprised). NOT to be confused with the Spanish word "hay" which means "there is." In Filipino, yes, the H in front IS pronounced.  
> \- Higad: hairy caterpillar (Eww. Google at your own risk. Very unpleasant image.)  
> \- Ina: mother  
> \- Inosente: innocent  
> \- Salamat: thank you  
> \- Salamat sa diyos: Thank god  
> \- Sira ulo: literally means you're head's broken, but this is often used figuratively to mean crazy/ insane.
> 
> Spanish words:  
> \- Ilustrado/s: elite  
> \- Puñeta: This is so hard to explain, because it can be complex. But it is generally a cuss word. Some say the translation for this is "Go fuck yourself!" or "Fuck you." However, In Filipino, you can almost hear it casually because most of us probably have a potty mouth, often using bad words as an interjection/ form of expression. (Tangina, 'wag po tayo magmalinis, charot.) It can also be spelled as punyeta.  
> \- Que: what  
> \- Soltero: bachelors/ unmarried men


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I'll make this short, but oh well. Second to the last chapter! Changed rating G to T for foul language. Thanks for reading! Mabuhay!

“What in God’s name are they doing?”

“That girl has poor tastes in clothes, don’t you think?”

“How shameful! What kind of mother didn’t teach her daughter how to dance?”

“God, how disgraceful! And audacious! That indio!”

“Poor señorita…”

“Ah… ano, señorita? I think… they’re all staring at us…” Bonita, with a head bowed, leaned close, and whispered to Marquita, who was merely a breadth away. The ilustrada had been coaching her how to waltz. However, she could no longer ignore the dread of being watched and judged, crawling on her skin like thousands of insects.  

“Don’t pay attention to them, no, look at me.” Marquita held her by the cheek and turned it to face her’s. “Do not mind them. Look at me,” she repeated.

Alas, it was difficult to focus now with intrusive thoughts and insecurities knocking at her. Listening how to dance was one thing, but commanding her feet, while looking at the señorita, and balancing her mind and body…. She still had to hold on to the señorita’s fan on one hand, with the red pouch, dangling from the same wrist.

“I don’t think I can do this, not even for the money…” Her heart began to thump, shaking her ribcage, almost running up to her throat. She could feel the beat in her head, too, like a marching band inside her brain.

“Use your left foot first,” Marquita instructed. “Step, close, up. Step, close, up. Step, close, up.”

Again, they had tried to waltz, but, alas, Bonita never knew how to dance. Not at all. Don Simoun never taught them anything else but how to wield an instrument. They played with their hands. Their feet on the other hand… All their feet could do was walk. And run away. At this moment, the musician was tempted to unclasp herself from the ilustrada’s arms and run far, far, far away from all these whispers and stares. The embarrassment fueled her racing heart and made her face flushed with shame.

But Marquita held her firmly from behind, by the waist. She floated on the dance floor like a diwata, a flawless muse of art, gliding through. In contrast with her, a stiff and shaken little thing, perspiring heavily like a wet dog, a lost dog.

She wondered about her friends. Could Pepito see this? Was Luciana going to ridicule her after? Would Teresita reprimand her? Or would they be just as befuddled as she? Each turn, she tried to look for a familiar face to plead, but all she could see were these well-dressed elite and their distinctly disappointing frowns.

“Señorita…”

“Marquita,” she cut the sentence. “You can call me just Marquita.”

“Ah, yes, I knew your name, but it isn’t appropriate since… well, you are an ilustrada. I am lower than you.”

“Says who?” her voice snapped. Bonita looked at her and saw fire in her eyes. “Says who?” Marquita repeated, the heavy tone almost demanding her an answer. “People like my father? People who love to brag that they’re better than others? People who call you an indio?”

“I…” Taken aback by the force of Marquita’s words, she didn’t know what was bothering her. It was as if what she said was incorrect? “But, I am an indio. Everywhere I go, that’s what they call—”  

“Who are they to put you lower? Just because you don’t have a house? Just because you barely have anything to eat?”

“But, we really are poor.”

“Just because you don’t earn the same amount as they can from their business trade? Who are they to call you lower, when you’re doing your best, and an honest and clean job?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t…”

“Who are they to keep the poor outside their walls? Who are they to hunt down the poor and make it look like they were bad people, that it was a good thing if a poor man dies, because less poverty is good for this goddamned country? Who are they to kill them and leave their corpses in the forests? Who are they?! Everybody only wants to be treated fairly, right? Right!”  

“Sen— Marquita… what are you trying to say? Are you, oh god, are you cry—?”

The ilustrada suddenly embraced her. Her face, buried on the musician’s neck, where she sobbed incoherently. Or perhaps more words that Bonita couldn’t comprehend. What had she been trying to say? She couldn’t follow anymore. But, one thing was clear, there was a friction, some kind of hatred, even abhorrence. She never heard a fellow ilustrado despise someone from their own kind. Yet Marquita’s tears weren’t simply of sadness and pity, or helplessness.

All the more perplexed, Bonita didn’t know what else to do but to wrap her arms around the señorita’s body. She patted her bare shoulder at awkward intervals, but hoped a message of comfort would come across. She whispered, “Shhh…” to the woman who silently grieved.

“PUTANG INA, ANONG GINAGAWA MO?!”

(Eng: SON OF A BITCH, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”)

The uproar came from no other than Don Julian. The man had appeared in between them, quickly separating them in a snap.

“Ama, please…”

But Don Julian twisted Marquita’s ear, and dragged her outside the hall. His mouth spat out curses upon curses, berating and degrading his own daughter.

“Tarantado ka ba, ha? Ano? Umiiyak ka pa ngayon? Hindi ka na nahiya? Ano ka ba, anak! Sira ulo ka na ba? Wala ka narinig sa akin noong nagsasayaw kayo ng mabahong hampaslupa, ha. At, ano ‘to? Magyayakapan pa kayo? Puta naman! Puñeta ka! Walang hiya ka talaga! Sa harap pa talaga ng lahat! Sa harap pa ng lahat—walang modo! Maledukado! Pinag-aral kita, at bababa ka lang sa burak nila—gago! Gago ka ba! Putang ina!”

(“Are you an imbecile? What? And now you’re crying in public? Have you no shame? What the hell, anak! Have you lost your mind? You didn’t hear a damn thing when you said you were going to dance with that wretched peasant, ha. And what’s this? You, embracing that filthy thing? Son of a bitch! Puñeta! You have no shame at all! And in front of people! In front of everybody here— you’re ill-mannered! You’re stupid! Yet I paid for your schooling, and now you’re stooping lowly to this peasant’s level— stupid! You stupid thing! You son of a bitch!”)

She wailed in pain for her ear as the public humiliation rolled for what felt like an eternity before the halls could no longer echo any of Marquita’s pleas. Bonita froze in fear, the horror settling in her veins, unable to move or think.

It was Luciana who reconnected her to reality.

“Damn, that was, like, incredibly, like, terrifying. Are you ok, Bonita?”

“Ah.”

“Did he hurt you, too? Like, besides calling you a hampaslupa. Which is, like, well, that’s what they always call us, ano?”

“Luciana…”

“So, did you, like, get the… ooh! That’s a nice looking fan! Where did you get it?”

“I, wait, what?”

In her hands, Marquita’s red abaniko.

* * *

The orphans left, shortly after that explosive scene in the Familia Abadir mansion. They left without a sound, and perhaps no one noticed either. With 40 pesos in their hands, they could honestly have a good meal, even a bowl of lugaw would suffice. A warm bowl with warm thoughts, washing them with the satisfying feeling of accomplishment. It was enough.

They walked closely together as if they were one entity, living and breathing with five different bodies. They passed by dim houses and quiet streets. Not even a stray dog was in sight. Perhaps the bakeries were closed at this time. After all, they had distinctly heard a bell crier shout, "Alas dose han dado!" Alas, it was midnight. And they were still out in the streets.

“Where to?” was the question in their eyes. They all looked at Bonita, expectantly. But all Bonita could hear was Don Julian’s words, pounding through her head. She couldn’t stop thinking about Marquita, if she would be fine. There was no hunger, but fear was settling inside. Unstoppable fear. She knew, she had to go back somehow.

The stars looked down on them without guidance. Their leader, muddled in her own thoughts, remained quiet for once. But it wouldn't be the first time that they didn't know where their feet would take them.

Filomena pointed to a bridge on the outskirts of the town. The trimmed Bermuda grass was moist, but not too muddy. It was soft enough if one could imagine so. Soon, they were all travelling towards soporific conversations until one by one, they dozed off. But Bonita, stayed awake.

The night crawled like an insect, but felt like an eternity before a lazy dawn blazed the sky. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GLOSSARY:  
> (most of the words were already used in previous chapters but oh well, just in case)
> 
> \- Abaniko: fan  
> \- Ama: father  
> \- Diwata: muse/ goddess. Nope, it doesn't mean "fairy" and it is not fair to appropriate it to that of the western fairy concept/ image. It isn't necessarily the same.  
> \- Hampaslupa: (derogatory) poor, low class, peasant, plebian.  
> \- Ilustrado/ ilustrada: elite  
> \- Indio: poor Filipino, lower class citizen  
> \- Lugaw: rice porridge/ arroz caldo


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to add the Implied/ Referenced Homophobia tag because, looking back at THIS time, in the Philippines? My god. Religion and conservatism and heteronormativity in this country and in that time? MY FUCKING GOD.
> 
> But of course, I don't want to write a tragic ending because that is not what I promised nor what I envisioned for this story. So, after a **lot** of revisions, this is how I settle the ending. I hope it's alright! I may or may not write anymore for cartoon fandoms because writing in English tires me so much. Thank you for the support! Salamat!

Tonight, the stars threw down their stares on Manila. The night had opened it’s ears to listen to some love song, a kundiman. The strum of the guitar. The soft, sad voice of a violin. The shrillness of the flute. The music melded in harmony, piercing the night like a bird dashing by. This music enveloped the pueblo for days and nights.

The orphans remained here, already losing track of time. That never happened yet, they were always in transit, moving as if the ground below pushed them forward, never to look back. They stayed under a bridge, by the outskirts of town. They could easily cross to another pueblo, but, their leader seemed to find comfort in this small town.

They were putting down their instruments, getting ready for bed. Juan the dog and Pepito immediately adjusted on the familiar touch of cogon grass. Luciana and Teresita huddled together, tucked in a dirty blanket they picked up years ago in the dump. When they were kids, the blanket was enough. Alas, they had grown and could barely cover up their legs and feet.

Filomena, about to lie down, saw Bonita, sitting perfectly still. Her hands cradled the bow and violin. She approached her and asked, “Are you alright?”

“Oh,” was all Bonita said.

Cicadas pierced the night. The two girls sat together, quietly listening to the insects’ symphony.

“This town’s alright.”

“I know.”

“I guess you could say, we’re getting comfortable here.”

“Yes.”

“But…”

“What?”

“Aren’t we… going elsewhere…?”

Bonita didn’t budge. She remained rooted on the ground, not even glancing up. After a sigh, she closed her eyes and whispered, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what was I think. Or what was I feeling.”

“You can tell me about it?”

When she opened her eyes and stared at Filomena, they were glistening red. Tears danced by the edge.

“I’ve… I’ve never felt like this before… I was always,” she sniffed, then continued, “...always, so sure. So confident. Always knew what to do. What to say. But, Filomena, I… I don’t understand…”

“What’s bothering, Bonita? Is it about your “mission” in the afternoons? Was it that bad?”

And she laughed at the term, “mission.” She didn’t want the others to follow her, so Bonita told them there was something important that she had to do alone. It was a solo “mission” to face a certain Señorita Marquita Abadir. She’d bring the violin as a cover, but in truth, she wanted to give the señorita her fan back, the red abaniko that was a token from the first day they met each other.

Alone, in Calle San Sebastian, the violinist would appear, but disappear just as quick. Bonita had never mustered the courage to even take a step up to the patio of the house. Shame engulfed her whole, spreading all over like never before. She looked down at herself: her clothes, her bare feet, her holey skirt, her skin. Then shame turned to disgust. She would run back to the bridge, pretending to hold her head up high for her amigos. Tomorrow afternoon, another trial, another failure. And the tomorrows kept on coming.

Some afternoons, Bonita could hear singing. The loud voice emanated from the azotea, the terrace of the house. Stealthily, she slunk beneath the terrace to listen, and oh! How certain she was that this was no other than Marquita herself, singing something in Spanish. These afternoons, she would close her eyes and daydream of having a house, or maybe working as a maid, taking care of someone else’s pet, or even teaching a small music school for children. Whenever Marquita stopped, Bonita’s heart sank back into reality. The red fan, still in her hands. It had to be given back before the band jumped into a different town. They never went back to the same town twice. But she was always too late. They never met.

“Was it that bad?” Filomena’s voice surged and this brought her back into the present. Night had crawled deeper, drowsiness whispering. “Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be?”

“Maybe,” Bonita nodded, wiping her eyes dry. “I guess, we should leave.”

“It doesn’t have to be too soon. We’re just… I’m just worried, alright?”

* * *

_If you keep something that isn’t your’s, the person who owns it will follow you in spirit._

Bullshit superstition. But Filipinos, highly superstitious, always said something that made one anxious.

This used to haunt Bonita. That was the reason why she never stole or took things, even when hunger clawed her stomach and pulled her strength downward into lethargy. She swore she would never, no matter how desperate. Let the others took whatever they fancied instead. A blanket. A smelly pillow. A plastic of moldy bread. A stray dog.

A red fan.

That was it. The first and last thing that she would ever take and keep so dearly.

* * *

“There’s someone singing in the plaza. I think she’s also an orphan, Bonita!” Teresita sounded excited. Pepito was bouncing with Juanito in his arms. Even Filomena was grinning widely.

“You should come see! She’s pure talent with that amazing voice!” Luciana tugged Bonita up from the grass. She had been fiddling with her violin, trying to tune it.

“I’m up, I’m up! Let’s go see,” she chuckled as the band of orphans flew to the plaza. They dashed through the uneven soil, past the barefoot children, past mothers with a slipper in hand, running after those kids. They jumped out of the way from workers pushing carts of vegetables and fruits. They almost tripped on loose chickens and dogs, until they reached the plaza.

There, circled by an audience of peasants and workers, stood Marquita.

In a snap, Bonita turned and ran back to where she sat. The others called out, confused, perplexed, but today, she wasn't running away from Marquita. Today was the day! She would finally give back the fan. And she would admit how she thought of her way too much, eating up most of her days and nights with images playing in her head. Maybe, she would even tell her that she made a song. For her. Then she would confess, "I remember you," she'd say, then she would hand back the fan. "I kept this for you."

It was sunset, but when she reached the plaza again, Bonita's day lit up like sunrise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GLOSSARY:  
> \- Abaniko: fan  
> \- Azotea: terrace  
> \- Amigos: friends  
> \- Calle San Sebastian: a fictional town to fit the purpose of the narrative  
> \- Kundiman: love song  
> \- Manila: Capital city of the Philippines-  
> \- Pueblo: town

**Author's Note:**

> GLOSSARY 1:  
> (Spanish: English. Filipino)  
> \- Abaniko: Fan. Pamaypay.  
> \- Calle: Street. Kalye.  
> \- Cola: hem of the dress.  
> \- Familia: Family. Pamilya.  
> \- Ilustrados: Elite. Burgis.  
> \- Indio: literally means India (today), but in the context of the 19th century, it was fucking derogatory and meant "stupid." Or low class, brainless, uneducated. Tonta also means stupid, very derogatory. Bobo.  
> \- "mis compadres y hermanos": my friends and brothers. Mga kaibigan at kapatid.  
> \- niño: boy. lalaki. totoy.  
> \- pueblo: town. community. bayan (?)  
> \- Viva: Long live! Mabuhay!
> 
> GLOSSARY 2:  
> (Filipino: English)  
> \- Pesos/ Centavos: monetary unit in the country. Centavo is cheap, almost not as valuable as today. As of today, as I write this, the peso is equivalent to $53.  
> \- Pan de sal: bread of salt. Basically the best hot breakfast bread, yo.  
> \- Pan de coco: bread of coco(nut) Sweet shit, bless.  
> \- "Paumanhin po.": sorry.  
> \- Po: Doesn't really translate to anything, just a marker to signify respect to a stranger or elder.  
> \- Tahanan: home.


End file.
